Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Lone Sheriff\The Gentleman Rogue\Never Trust a Rebel (3 page)

“Huh?”

She rolled her eyes. “I...um, I have no extrasmall clothes,” she intoned. She waited a beat. “You know, camisoles and bloomers and...things.”

He stonewalled.

“Lingerie,” she muttered.

He enjoyed baiting her. He also enjoyed imagining what her lingerie looked like. Silky, with lace? “How come you've got no underthings?” he asked blandly.

“My valise was lost when I changed trains in St. Louis. All I have with me is a very small travel case, and it carries only the minimum garments. So you see—”

“Tough.”

“Really, Sher—Cousin Jericho,” she murmured. “What would Aunt Bessie say about that?”

“Bad luck, I guess. Who's Aunt Bessie?”

“My mother.”

Jericho almost laughed out loud. “
Aunt Bessie
would probably say ‘plan ahead.'” He looked up at the ceiling and noted the avid interest of the mercantile owner.

“Come on, let's vamoose.” He pulled her toward the door.

“Hey,” Carl yelled. “What about my money?”

“Put it on my tab, Carl. Cousin Maddie always pays me back.”

Outside the heat had diminished, though the night air was still warm and soft. Jericho drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly, looking up at the stars. Hell, he'd like a drink. Talking Mrs. O'Donnell out of something was like pushing a pig into a pillowcase. She was nosy and outspoken and attention-getting, and he'd be glad when she was gone.

In silence they started back to the hotel. Up ahead, Jericho spotted Lefty Dorran in the alley between the mercantile and the barber shop. Lefty was a big overgrown almost-man, and Jericho had arrested him twice this summer for assault. He caught the glint of metal and instinctively put Maddie on the other side of him.

Too late. Lefty had a sharp eye for a pretty woman, and even the fact that she was walking with the sheriff didn't deter him. The kid burst out of the alley onto the sidewalk and sidled up to her.

Jericho tried to block him with his left shoulder, but Maddie stepped to one side and then faced the towering hulk with a perfectly serene expression on her face.

Lefty kept coming. Maddie neatly stepped into his path, pivoted on one foot and swept her other leg around behind him. Then she hooked the toe of her shoe around the back of his knees. The next thing Jericho saw was Lefty's hulking body sprawled facedown in the street.

Maddie dusted off her white gloves and smiled up at him. “I told you I would prove you needed me. You owe me one breakfast. Eight o'clock sharp.”

All the way back to the hotel and up the stairs to Room 14, Jericho thought over what she had just done. Didn't seem possible that a slim woman like Maddie had laid that big galoot out flat. Some kind of Oriental trick, maybe. Lord, the woman was downright dangerous.

At her hotel room door she slipped the key into the lock and turned to face him, her soft-looking mouth quirked up in a smile.

“It has been a most interesting evening, Sheriff. I would not have missed it for anything.”

“Sure wish I could say the same, ma'am.”

“Good night, Cousin Jericho. Do get some rest. You are looking quite peaked.”

Chapter Three

“S
heriff? Sheriff, wake up!”

Something joggled Jericho's shoulder. “Go 'way,” he mumbled.

“Can't, Sheriff. You gotta wake up.”

Jericho cracked open one eyelid to see his deputy standing over him. The kid better have a good reason for breaking into a damn good dream.

“Why do I?”

“Sorry, Sheriff. Maybe you forgot you're s'posed to meet that detective lady for breakfast?”

Jericho shot upright and instantly regretted it. His temples pounded and he snapped his lids closed against the bright light. “You sure?”

“Eight o'clock, Sheriff. Least that's what you said last night. But that was before—”

“Yeah? Before what?” The kid's face seemed kinda out of focus.

Sandy studied his boots. “Uh, before you polished off that bottle of whiskey.”

Jupiter, now he remembered. Sort of. His head throbbed and his mouth felt as dry as an empty well. And his stomach—

He'd think about his stomach later. He dragged himself off the cot and pulled on jeans and a clean shirt. He'd skip shaving; he couldn't really focus on anything, much less see his face in the mirror. Besides, it was hell to shave left-handed.

“She sure is pretty.”

“Who?”

“Miss O'Donnell. Sheriff, didn't cha even notice?”

“Don't get your hopes up, son. It's
Mrs
. O'Donnell. And she's leaving on the noon train.”

Sunshine poured through the front windows of the restaurant like the eye-stabbing beam of a lighthouse. God help him, he could barely see through his slitted lids.

He spotted Mrs. Detective perched primly at the corner table, spooning sugar into her coffee.

“Good morning, Sheriff.”

He winced. Did she have to sound so cheerful?

“Mmm-hmm,” he grumbled. He took the chair across from her, facing away from the glare. Rita appeared at his elbow.

“Coffee,” he managed.

Maddie looked up. “I will have three eggs over easy, bacon cooked very crisp, fried potatoes and some ketchup, please.”

Jericho's stomach heaved at the description. “Just coffee, Rita,” he repeated. “And could you please bring it in the next sixty seconds?”

The plump waitress must have sensed his desperation because an entire pot immediately appeared before him, along with an oversize mug.

Jericho eyed Mrs. Detective through the steam rising from his cup. There was something annoying about a woman who looked this trim and tidy at breakfast. And this pretty. She sent him a wide smile and, without thinking, he nodded.

Big mistake. Any motion made his vision blurry and his head... He groaned. His head felt like a railroad crew was laying track between his temples.

She pulled out her notepad and pencil and plopped them onto the tablecloth beside her. “Well, Sheriff, would you care to hear my observations thus far?”

Jericho blinked. “Observations? You mean what you've learned so far about the Tucker gang?”

“Oh, no. I mean in general. It's always wise to gather background information, don't you agree?”

He gulped down another mouthful of the scalding coffee. “Okay, let's hear it.”

She flipped open the small leather-covered book. “First, your deputy—Sandy, is it?—is too sensitive to be much help on this mission.”

Too sensitive? Exactly what did that mean? Did she think he was going to feel sorry for the outlaws? He gripped the coffee pot handle in a stranglehold and refilled his mug.

“Second, Mr. Ness, at the mercantile, does not like you.”

“Doesn't take a genius to figure that out. Carl doesn't like anybody much. Even his wife.”

“Has there been trouble in the past between you and Mr. Ness?”

“Yeah. Small stuff, mostly. He sold me a sack of moldy potatoes once, and I confiscated a shipment of some Chinese herb he ordered because it was half opium.”

Mrs. Detective nodded and went on. “Third, the hotel manager is cheating the Mexican couple who brought up my morning bath. Fourth—” She broke off and looked him over so thoroughly he wondered if his hair had gone curly overnight.

“You look awful, Sheriff.”

“Didn't sleep much.” And he'd drunk more last night than he had in a dozen years.

“It appears to me you are not yet awake.”

Jericho snorted. He was awake enough to notice she smelled good, like lavender. “Is that your fifth observation?”

“My fourth, actually. My fifth observation is that there won't be another Wells Fargo gold shipment until Tuesday.”

“Tuesday,” he repeated. He already knew that, but he was impressed that she'd talked to the bank manager already this morning. He wondered if she'd also visited the dressmaker.

That thought led to a consideration of her underclothes. Were they brand spanking new? Or maybe she wasn't wearing any?
Don't go there, you damn fool
.

“Yes, Tuesday,” she said. “That is tomorrow.”

Thank goodness, the coffee was kicking in. “I wouldn't worry about it, Mrs. O'Donnell. You'll be on the train going the other direction. Back to Chicago.”

And then he could get back to the plan he'd already laid out.

“I most certainly will not be.” She twiddled her fork until Rita laid a plate heaped with food in front of her. The smell of cooked bacon replaced the lavender fragrance and Jericho began to feel nauseated. He poured another mug full of coffee.

“I've got good reasons for sending you back, Mrs. O'Donnell. Care to hear 'em?”

“Certainly,” she retorted. She grasped a thick slice of bacon between a delicate thumb and forefinger and crunched it up in two mouthfuls.

Jericho tried not to watch. “First, you're a woman. And being female and pretty fine-looking, that means you're gonna draw attention wherever you go.”

“Pish-posh.” She stabbed her fork into the yolk of one fried egg. “I know how to disguise myself.”

Jericho had to look away from her plate. He'd sure like to see a disguise that would cover those curves. Even wearing a feed sack, she'd still look awful damned attractive.

“Second, you're a woman. That means you're not as strong as either me or my deputy, no matter what kind of fancy Chinese wrestling you can do.”

“Japanese. Judo is a Japanese art.” She stuffed a forkful of fried potatoes into her mouth.

“Third...” Jericho held up three fingers on his left hand—at least he hoped it was three. “You're a woman, like I said, and that means you don't think logically. Also you jump to conclusions.”

Her fork clanked onto her plate. “You are either misinformed about the capabilities of the female members of the species or you are just plain prejudiced.”

“I'm prejudiced,” he growled. “Fourth, I'm the sheriff here, not you. And on top of everything else, you don't take orders well.”

An odd expression flared in her green eyes and Jericho unconsciously held his breath. After a tense silence, she folded her hands in her lap and her lips opened. “I have been told that over and over since I was three years old, and it is true. I do not take orders well. But I
do
take orders, provided they make sense and are halfway reasonable. However, I warn you those are big ifs.”

Jericho pressed on. “Fifth, you talk too damn much.”

She looked up from her breakfast, her eyes wide. “What?”

“I don't talk much,” he offered. “I've got to ride the train to Portland to intercept the gang, and that train takes six hours. I don't guess I could stand more'n about an hour of your note-taking and observations and jabber.”

Her face turned crimson. “Jabber! Why you arrogant, pigheaded, incapacitated, sorry excuse for a lawman. What makes you think I could stand an hour of your moody, bad-tempered silence?”

He delivered his final shot slowly, making every syllable count. “Let's face it, Mrs. O'Donnell, we're mismatched. The bottom line is we're not about to partner up, and I'll make it plain why not.” He made his voice as growly as possible. “You're too much trouble.”

He could scarcely believe what he saw next. Huge, glittery tears rose in her eyes and hung trembling on her lower lashes.

“I do not care one whit if we are mismatched,” she said in a carefully controlled voice. “I am a professional detective. I have accepted an assignment. And I will follow through on it or I will die trying.”

Calmly she forked a bite of fried potato into her mouth.

Jericho seethed inside while she chewed and swallowed, her eyes still shiny with moisture. Good God, he could take a woman's sobbing, even screaming, but tears that didn't go anywhere, that just sat there like diamonds on her dark lashes, tore him up inside.

“Okay. Okay, Mrs. O'Donnell. You win.”

Her head snapped up and she glared at him.

“Madison,” she amended. “My given name is Madison but I prefer Maddie.”

More glaring. Hell's half acre, now her eyes looked like chips of green ice.

“Okay, okay.” He wrapped her nickname around his tongue. “Maddie.”

She looked into his face for a long moment, and when she opened her mouth to let words fall out, her voice was so quiet it was like snow drifting onto a meadow.

“Damn right,” she said.

Jericho clenched his jaw. She had guts, he'd say that for her. She had other things, too, but he was trying like the devil not to notice.

He dragged his attention away from her soft-looking mouth. “Tomorrow's train to Portland, with the gold shipment aboard, leaves at eight o'clock sharp. In the morning,” he said with emphasis.

“Thank you, Jericho.” She tried a thin smile, but it wavered out of her control. “I will be aboard.”

Chapter Four

A
t ten o'clock that night, Jericho crawled into his bed cold sober. He'd be up and bushy-tailed at dawn, and by seven o'clock he'd be on the train to Portland with forty thousand dollars in gold from Wells Fargo stashed in the mail car. Miners from all over Oregon and even Idaho brought their diggings to the Smoke River Bank, trusting they would safely ship it to the vault in Portland. And Jericho would be on board that train to make sure their diggings stayed safe.

Alone.

He hated to lie. It was one of the things he'd sworn he'd never do. Lying made him less of the man he'd wanted to be ever since he was twelve years old and on the run from the Sisters of Hope. Back then, he'd resolved he would always face up to the truth.

He lay on his narrow cot behind the sheriff's office and tried not to flinch at the deception he'd laid for Mrs. Detective, telling her the train departed at eight o'clock when it actually departed at seven. First, he'd stopped in at the hotel and found that Mrs. O'Donnell had left a wake-up reminder at the desk. He'd suspected as much; she was the type who planned all her moves ahead. In exchange for agreeing not to arrest the hotel manager's seventeen-year-old son for peeking in sixteen-year-old Lavonne Cargill's bedroom window, the manager obligingly tore up Mrs. O'Donnell's wake-up reminder note.

Next. He'd visited the mercantile for some painkiller. A skinny kid he'd never seen before lounged against the cash register, studying Jericho's sling. “For yer arm, huh?”

“Yeah. Not too much laudanum—makes me drowsy. Where's Mr. Ness?”

“Home, I guess. I'm his cousin from Idaho. Name's Orion.”

Jericho nodded. He didn't look much like Carl. “Been here long?”

“'Bout two weeks. Stopped here on my way to strike it rich.”

“Gold mining?”

“Nah. Selling Red Eye to the miners up in Idaho.” He scrabbled on the shelf behind the counter and produced a small bottle of dark liquid. “This stuff is mostly alcohol. How much of it do you want?”

“All of it.” He needed to start exercising his stiff wrist and limbering up his gun hand, and he knew it would hurt some.

The kid wrapped up the bottle and Jericho stuffed it into the inside pocket of his deerskin vest. Funny the way Orion handled the bottle—with his pinkie in the air like a lady lifting a teacup.

The last thing Jericho did before crawling onto his cot that night was slip off his sling and stretch his arm out straight. Made his wrist hurt like hell, but he managed eight stretches in a row.

* * *

Before first light, he rolled off the cot, downed a cup of Sandy's gritty, cold coffee, and grabbed his gun belt. His deputy slept in the concrete-block jail in whatever cell was vacant. Jericho felt fine leaving the kid in charge; the jail was empty.

On his way to the train station he studied the second-floor windows of the hotel; dark as the inside of a barrel. He felt a stab of guilt, but he squashed it down and smiled instead. Mrs. Detective would sleep right on past train time. Kinda mean to trick her, but he knew he couldn't tolerate sitting next to her for six hours.

And, he admitted, there was more to it than that. He couldn't stand to see a woman get hurt, especially not one he felt responsible for. The Tucker gang could be vicious.

The train was already puffing smoke out the stack as he swung himself aboard and entered the passenger car.

What the—

Maddie O'Donnell sat in the first seat, smiling at him like a self-satisfied fox with a chicken in its belly.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

She patted the faded red velvet cushion next to her with a gloved hand. “We settled all that yesterday, Sheriff. There is no need to go through it again.”

He couldn't help staring at her. She wore a different hat, yellow ribbons with flowers and a veil rucked up on top. A crisp yellow ruffled skirt boiled around her ankles and a lacy yellow shirtwaist was tucked into as trim a waist as he'd ever seen. She looked like one of those daffodils that poked up each spring in the orphanage garden.

Her outfit looked brand-new. He wondered if her underclothes were new as well. He forced his gaze away.

The train lurched forward and Jericho grabbed onto the upholstered seat back. Maddie swept her skirt aside to make room for the sheriff beside her. He did not sit down for the longest time, just stood swaying in the aisle, staring at her. What on earth was he looking at? Oh, of course—her new hat. True, it was too gaudy, but it added to her disguise. Besides, once Mrs. Forester, the dressmaker, had warmed to the idea of the flowers, it was hard to stop her. The woman had grumbled at being roused at such an early hour, but Maddie had purchased enough clothing to make it well worth her while.

Carefully, she unpinned the creation, ripped off all but three daisies, and resettled it atop her pinned-up hair. She secured it with her longest hatpin; it was also the sharpest of her collection. In a pinch, it made an effective weapon.

“Why do you not sit down, Sheriff? I promise not to talk.”

He frowned down at her. “Don't want to muss up your skirt, Mrs. O'Donnell.”

“You won't. It's made of seersucker. Wonderful fabric for traveling on an assignment—it never wrinkles, no matter what I do.”

The train picked up speed and swung around a sharp curve, and the sheriff edged onto the seat as far away from her as he could get.

Maddie huffed out a breath. “You do not like me much, do you?”

His eyes—a dark, inky blue—flicked to hers for an instant, then dropped to the boots he'd stretched out and crossed in front of him. “Not much, no.”

She pursed her lips. “Tell me something, Sheriff.”

He did not answer.

“Why are you so unfriendly?”

The sheriff gave an almost imperceptible jerk, and then he turned those eyes on her. Now they looked angry. Almost feral.

After a long silence he started talking, his voice so low she could hardly hear him. “Don't really like most people.”

“But whyever not? What has happened to make you so...well, surly?”

“I watched a friend die in my place,” he gritted. “After that, I didn't like being close to anyone.”

Maddie blinked. “Who was he?”

He looked past her, out the train window, and she watched his gaze grow unfocused.

“She.”

“She? Your...?” Maddie hesitated. He was so rough around the edges she doubted he'd ever been married. A lover, perhaps? She was keen to know, but it would be highly improper to ask. She said nothing, just noted the tightness around his mouth.

“She, uh, died for something I did.”

“Why, that is perfectly awful! How old were you then?”

He shrugged. “'Bout ten, I guess. I never knew for sure what my age was.”

Maddie's throat felt so raw she could scarcely speak. She closed her eyes. How he must have hated himself. She would not be surprised if he still did. She shut her mouth tight. What could she say to ease a scar like that? Nothing.

He recrossed his legs. “Heard enough?”

“More than enough,” she breathed. It explained everything, his brusque manner, his hard exterior, the unreachable part of himself he kept shuttered.

He slipped the sling off his arm, flexed his wrist, and waggled each of his fingers individually. Some of them, she noticed, seemed reluctant to move.

“Does that hurt?”

“Hell, yes, it hurts.”

“Then why—”

“Because I'm gonna need a steady gun hand and a trigger finger that works, that's why.”

Go ahead,
she thought.
Grumble and roar all you want
. She was not going to let herself be intimidated by him.

He said nothing for the next hour, just worked his wrist and his fingers back and forth, his lips thinned over his teeth. Perspiration stood out on the part of his forehead she could see; his black hair straggled over the rest.

The uniformed conductor stuck his head into the car. “Next stop Riverton,” he yelled.

Two passengers boarded, an old man, bent nearly double and a young woman, probably his daughter, who held on to one of his scrawny arms. She settled him four seats behind.

The sheriff gave them a quick once-over, then reattached his sling and pulled a small bottle from inside his vest.

“Pain medicine,” he said to no one in particular.

“What you drink is your business, Sheriff.”

He gave her a long, unblinking look. “Damn right.”

Maddie laughed out loud, then clapped her hand over her mouth. Jericho swigged a mouthful from the bottle, corked it and stowed it in his vest pocket.

“Now, Mrs. O'Donnell, What about you?”

“Me! What
about
me?”

The ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “What happened to you that makes you so sure of yourself and so stubborn?”

“N-nothing. It just comes naturally. My upbringing, I suppose.”

“Ladyfied and spoiled, I'd guess.”

Maddie bit her lip. “Well, let's just say rich and protected. Actually, overprotected. My mother was English, very high society. My father was Irish and very well-off. A banker.”

“Figures,” Jericho muttered.

“I married young to get away from them, really. He was also a banker. After a while—a very short while—I realized my husband was only interested in my money and he only wanted a wife for a showpiece. So I became just that—a china doll with pretty dresses. It didn't take long before I wanted a real life.”

He snorted. “What the hell is a ‘real life'?”

She thought for a long minute. “I am not sure exactly. Someone who loves me for myself. Real friends, not society matrons. At least I know what it is not—finishing schools and servants and a closet full of expensive clothes.”

He took care not to look at her, staring again out the window at the passing wheat fields. “Seems to me, Mrs. O'Donnell, that you're gonna feel kinda lost out here in the West. Ought to be back in the big city, where you belong.”

She turned toward him. “I suppose I do feel lost, in a way. The West is so...well, big. Things—towns—are so far apart.”

“Yeah, that spooks a lot of Easterners.”

“But I do not feel lost when I am on an assignment for Mr. Pinkerton. Then I know exactly who I am. It makes me feel...worthwhile.”

She pulled a ball of pink cotton thread from her travel bag and began to crochet. Her fingers shook the tiniest bit.

Jericho leaned back and closed his eyes. Nothing more worth saying, or asking, he figured. He must have dozed for hours and suddenly the train screeched to a stop. A glance through the window told him they were not in a train station; they were out in the middle of nowhere.

Hell's bells, here it came.

Left-handed, Jericho dragged his Colt out of the holster, thumbed back the hammer and started for the mail car. A swish of petticoats at his heels told him Maddie was right behind him.

“Stay here,” he yelled over his shoulder.

“Try and make me!”

Damn fool woman. She'd get herself killed and he'd kick himself to hell and back. He wished he'd never laid eyes on her.

In the mail car, the white-faced clerk stood frozen, hands in the air, while a man with a bandanna covering the lower half of his face held a revolver on him with one hand and, with the other, hurled a canvas Wells Fargo bag through the open side door.

Maddie darted off to Jericho's right, clutching a revolver.

“Get down!” he shouted. The young mail clerk dropped to the floor but Maddie went into a crouch and leveled her weapon at the robber.

“Hands up!” Her ordinarily genteel voice cut like cold steel.

The man straightened in surprise, then turned his gun toward the voice. Jericho sent a bullet zinging off the silver handle and the gun skidded across the floor in front of Maddie. She stopped it with her small black shoe and kicked it into a corner.

Three men on horseback waited outside the car. Maddie swung her pistol toward the opening and fired, winging one man. Another outlaw pointed his weapon at her but Jericho's shot spun it out of his hand.

The mounted robbers began peppering the wall behind them with gunfire while the man inside ducked and began shoving more canvas bags out onto the ground.

A tall rider with a paunch walked his horse up to the car and took careful aim at Jericho, but before he could squeeze the trigger Maddie fired a shot that neatly spun his weapon out of his hand. Where had she learned to shoot like that?

Fat Man reined away. Maddie sent another bullet through his flapping black coattail.

The man inside skedaddled after the canvas bags, shoved one more off the car and then tumbled out onto the ground after it. He dove under his waiting horse. Jericho itched to shoot him, but with his left-handed aim off, he figured he'd kill the horse before he nailed the outlaw.

The three others hefted the canvas sacks behind their saddles, mounted and thundered off in a cloud of gray dust. The last man scrambled onto his horse and pounded after them.

Jericho raised his revolver to pick him off, but he was out of range.

Maddie put a shot through his hat, but he twisted in the saddle and fired back at her. She yelped.

The bullet tore through the sleeve of her shirtwaist, burning a path above her elbow. It felt like something scraping her skin with a white-hot knife.

Then there was nothing but dust, the audible prayers of the crouching mail clerk, the chuff of the train engine, and Jericho yelling at her.

“Dammit, Maddie, you'd think you'd be smart enough to stay out of the line of fire!” He leaped over the clerk and grabbed her arm. Right where it hurt.

She gritted her teeth. “If you do not let me go, Sheriff, I am going to shoot you, too!”

He snatched his hand away and stepped back, eyes narrowed. “Are you hurt?”

She lifted her arm and pointed to the black-rimmed hole in the sleeve. “Bullet burn.”